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1
Buck’s always been a bit touch-starved.
Since he was a child, he’d swerve into bushes and careen down hills to wind up in emergency rooms, chasing an imitation of love in the lukewarm touch of a surgical glove. His mother never hugged him when he returned home safe; his father never clapped a sportive hand on his shoulder with a distinctly paternal smile. Buck’s underdeveloped mind would swear that next time, if he closed his eyes shut tight, tight, tight and wished like his pencils were birthday candles, they’d show up. They’d care. They wouldn’t just say they loved him— they’d prove it.
There was a time in Buck’s adolescence when he couldn’t fall asleep without pretending someone else was there to comfort him. He’d contort his arms so that his own hand would feel foreign as he painted brushstrokes of isolation up and down his side. He’d wind a hand uncomfortably behind him so that he could pet his hair away from his face with eyes screwed shut and convince himself that a figure was standing behind that layer of pitch-black denial. On nights where the absence of “I love you” rang a little too loud, Buck would imagine himself as a ball of pure energy and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until his arms became shadow puppets of boa constrictors. It was never enough— but then again, neither was he.
Eventually, Buck accepted that his parents would always be just out of reach. Even if he managed to touch them, there’s no way he’d be able to hold on. He’d search for solace in strangers, a habit that would be hard to shake until his mid-20s. Once he had a steady stream of skin-to-skin contact, Buck found that he wanted something… more. He wanted something behind the touches– or maybe he wanted someone behind them. Pretty girls would shoot him pretty smiles and they’d spend exceedingly pretty nights together, but it left him feeling strangely untethered. He wasn’t alone, he was just… lonely.
In walked Eddie Diaz.
From the moment he laid eyes on him, Eddie brought something new to Buck’s system. Something red-hot and glimmering that ran through his entire body, displaced into a caricature of “jealousy” and territorial behavior that Eddie seemed to see straight through, straight from the start.
The feeling lingered as Buck couldn’t help but swing the pendulum from foe to friend. Eddie was so casual about touching him— a shoulder nudge here, a poke there, a kick under the table or an elbow on the field. Even as every fiber of his being rejoiced at the weight of Eddie’s hand on his bicep, there was something uncomfortable crawling beneath his skin insisting that he didn’t deserve it.
Then, in a blink, years passed like leaves falling from deciduous trees. Buck went from stiffening under Eddie’s touch to relaxing into it, even initiating contact in the form of one-armed hugs and comforting thumbs rubbing into tense shoulders. Eddie’s touch satiates something primal in him. Everyone’s touch does— Bobby’s fatherly grip and Hen’s comforting hands are both just as nice— but there’s always been something different about Eddie. Something Buck hasn’t been able to put his finger on.
Still, lately Eddie’s seemed… different.
Those thoughtless touches seemed to wait a beat longer before moving on. They went from sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch to thigh-to-thigh, gravitating closer and closer until Eddie’s head would suddenly be rested against Buck’s chest more often than not as they watched trashy television or the trashier news.
Last week, Eddie put a hand on Buck’s waist as he sidled past him on his way to the coffee pot. But then he was past Buck, completely unobstructed with one hand reaching for the handle—
And the other hand was still firmly rooted against Buck’s waist.
And the thing is… Buck could have played it so cool. He keeps little quips stuck behind his teeth for emergencies, so he could’ve smirked or clicked his tongue or joked about how much Eddie clearly needs that caffeine boost.
But then Buck made the critical, fatal, suffer-the-wrath-of-God-al mistake of looking down at Eddie’s face, half-hidden behind a steaming mug. A silent question stirred into those grounding eyes like sugar stirred in tea. You can’t hold it against Buck for biting his tongue and staying perfectly still while Eddie drank in the sight of him just as much as he drank his coffee.
They don’t talk about it. They’re good at that— not talking, that is. See, Eddie and Buck… they do. They’re doers. So Buck doesn’t think about why Eddie’s thumbing over his pulse point in the car or why he’s resting his chin on Eddie’s head after a long shift. It just happens.
There’s a lot to love about nights at the Diaz household: Chris, the perfect temperature set by the guarded AC, a bigger kitchen to move around, Eddie’s absurdly comfortable couch, Eddie.
If Buck were a little more honest or a little more brave, he might admit to himself that there’s no place he’d rather be. Even for something as mundane as tonight, when all three of them are engaged in different activities in the same room. Chris is tirelessly working on homework at the table, Eddie is tinkering with an old lamp that “won’t light up right”-- it lights, but apparently not in the “right” way— and Buck is supposed to be making a list of seeds they need for the garden next season. He’s supposed to be putting pen to paper and using his head for thinking, not watching the other two in their own little worlds with enough saccharine fondness to frost a fucking cake.
Then Eddie yawns, silent but comically obvious, and Buck isn’t quick enough to bat away the thought that he looks so comically kissable, too.
“Where…” Eddie mumbles under his breath, squinting at his unorganized box of tools. Buck strains his ears to listen as he rustles through the metal, searching for something deeply important. “Damn it.”
“Swear jar,” he and Chris say in unison, falling into matching fits of giggles when Eddie raises his head with an unimpressed glare.
“What’s up?” Buck asks, moving to stand behind Eddie’s chair and peer down into the box as if he knows what to look for. Eddie leans back, head thumping unceremoniously against Buck’s abdomen. They both sigh— for different reasons, Buck assumes.
“I can’t find my chain pliers,” he laments, glaring at the tools as if it’s their fault. Buck gets the urge to do something ridiculous like run his hand through Eddie’s hair or kiss the crown of his head to comfort him. He digs his nails into his palms instead and steps away, pretending not to notice how Eddie’s head jerks back without his body there to keep him upright.
“Where are you going?” Eddie asks when Buck is halfway to the door, sounding so truly confused that it makes something within Buck twist like one of those candy machines you need to turn a quarter in.
“I have a pair in the jeep. I’ll go grab it,” he explains, throwing a vague gesture behind him.
The cool night air is a shock to his system, and Buck raises a hand to his cheek, dreading the warmth he finds. Part of him wants to start the jeep’s ignition and drive far, far away until he reaches Portland or drifts into the ocean. In his peripheral vision, he feels the glow of the Diaz living room lights. He couldn’t leave if there was a gun to his head. (Come to think of it, there already has been a gun to his head. Even then, not an ounce of him wanted to leave Eddie.)
Truth be told, the mini-survival kit he has stashed under his passenger seat isn’t for him. It started as a pure precautionary thing, the same way some people fill their bathroom cabinets with band-aids or Ibuprofen. Then he saw the absolute, unadulterated panic on Chimney’s face when Jee tripped and scraped her knee for the first time, and Buck decided that there was no harm in trying to be prepared.
Aren't you a little old to be a Boy Scout? Maddie jabbed when he told her.
His fingers wrap around the handle of his toolbox, and he feels like he earned a badge anyway as he drags it out. He shuts the door and locks it with a chirp, not examining the rest of his “survival” supplies (including but not limited to lens cleaning wipes, a set of collapsible braces, and Eddie’s favorite brand of gum).
There’s no commotion when he walks in, just like there wasn’t much when he left. That’s how it always is at the Diaz household: it always feels as though Buck could come and go as he pleases and always be welcome. Feeling welcomed, that’s still a fairly new phenomenon for him. He won’t lie and say he’s completely used to it.
Eddie doesn’t look up until Buck’s shadow eclipses him and he extends a hand to offer the pliers. Then, Eddie’s certainly looking at him. He’s very much looking at Buck. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it’s the sort of look girls have given him at their front stoops or outside movie theaters, The Look that says “kiss me, kiss me, kiss me now?”
But Buck knows better. So he just smiles and turns to ask Chris if there are any problems he can help with— there won’t be, he knows. Chris could wipe the floor with him when it comes to these geometric proofs.
“You’re going to make such a good husband,” Eddie mutters, sounding soft and a little drunk. Buck looks back, startled, only to find Eddie fixated on the lamp’s pull chain. There’s no tension on his face, nothing to give away that he had just said something like— something like what he just said!
It almost feels like it wasn’t even meant for Buck’s ears, like Eddie was just saying it to say it, as if he—
“¡Vamos! I told you this old thing had more power in it, didn’t I?”
The lamp spurs to life, casting Eddie’s profile in a perfect shadow against the wall behind him. Buck wants to trace the shape of it in chalk and keep it there for good.
“Amazing,” he breathes. Eddie smiles at him, all victory and raw honey, and Buck thinks the whole lamp thing is impressive, too.
2
There are a few places Buck would rather be on a Sunday morning than staring down an aisle of church pews in a suit that feels a hair too tight for the occasion. Granted, most of his clothes err on the side of too tight nowadays, but still. Not the best threads for when there are children present— lots and lots of children.
Connor and Kameron invited him to their son’s baptism, an invitation that made Buck feel equal parts touched and lightheaded like he stood up too quickly.
He’ll never regret giving them a child, not when he saw the joy flood their faces when he agreed to be their sperm donor. Yet, despite all the soul-searching and heart-to-heart reality checks from Hen, the whole ‘having to be okay with letting go’ thing doesn’t come naturally to him. The baby at the end of the aisle isn’t his son— not in any way that matters.
The strange part is that Buck feels completely and utterly fine about that fact. He doesn’t feel robbed for stepping back after Kameron gave birth, he doesn’t feel wistful or jealous or entitled to anything more than what they deem appropriate to give him. Really, he’s glad the kid has such a loving two-person household to raise him.
…
It’s just that—
In recent months, Buck’s found himself wishing that he could be a dad. A real one. Not one who’s on legal documents just in case the child ends up needing bone marrow from a biological match. But believe him, he’s not trying to seek it out in Connor’s son. He’d never jeopardize their family unit for some selfish whim that’s got its claws in him.
Something about it makes him feel guilty, though. So he accepts their invitation and promises to sit in the back for the ceremony, and it’s fine. It’s totally fine!
Except it isn’t. Because Buck isn’t even religious, so the light pooling in from the stained glass windows feels less like divinity and more like spotlights from a police helicopter, seeking to single him out for how he craves more than what he has.
And for some barely fathomable reason, Buck feels like a criminal.
“All good?” a quiet voice breathes against the shell of his ear, and the nausea bleeds away in time with Eddie’s hand settling on his lower back.
Buck was prepared to all but beg him to come with, but he only got as far as “Are you free this weekend?” before Eddie blindly agreed.
Which was… nice. But odd. Wasn’t it odd?
When he explained that they’d be attending the baptism of the… product of his sperm donation (he had to come up with a better way to phrase that soon), Eddie didn’t look at him like he’d grown a second head or question why he was going in the first place.
Buck held his breath, waiting for Eddie to laugh at him or yell at him or give some sort of reaction that wasn’t perfect composure. He nearly turned away to run for the hills until Eddie suddenly hummed, drawing his attention back like a moth to a flame.
“Are we bringing Chris? I don’t think his old suit fits him anymore. Kid’s growing like a beanstalk.”
And Buck shouldn’t have felt so relieved, so at ease, so thankful to fall back on Eddie like they’re at the edge of a wildfire and not just another phase of Buck’s insecurity, but…
“If only his dad got the same treatment,” he knocked his shoulder against Eddie’s. Eddie raised a brow, covertly shifting his weight to the balls of his feet as he straightened up. Buck merely rolled his shoulders back, making use of the few extra inches he had on him. With a groan, Eddie gently shoved his elbow into his side.
Chris had cool teenager plans today, the kind of plans that feel life-or-death for your social life, but he and Eddie took him shopping for a new suit anyway. Buck wiggled his brows and told him he’d need it for prom, chuckling when Chris pushed him out of the fitting rooms with blazing cheeks.
God, he loves that kid so much.
That’s probably part of what’s making Buck have this whole Dad crisis. Taking care of Chris is as simple as breathing, but Buck can’t let himself think— he can’t admit that he wishes—
Chris isn’t his son. Eddie isn’t his— whatever. Buck can insert himself into their household for as long as he wants, he can think about how easily he could get used to staying there, but what happens the next time Eddie finds a nice woman to introduce into their family?
What if this time she sticks? What if she moves up the ranks and takes the position Buck’s been filling on an interim basis? If Chris were to have a step-parent, if Eddie were to remarry— don’t ask why the thought makes bile linger in Buck’s throat— what room would there be for him?
And the absolute worst part is he can’t even talk to Eddie about it. Eddie, his best friend, the man he tells about how many blueberries he got in his parfait. Buck can tell him everything except the truth, sometimes.
How would he explain it? How could he even begin to relay how selfish, how greedy, how pitifully childish he’s feeling?
Hey, I love what we’ve got going on here. Would you mind staying celibate for the rest of your life so that I can hold on to it?
I mean, really—
“Buck,” Eddie’s voice brings him back, lips barely brushing his ear. He repeats himself, tone all calculated and concerned. “All good?”
Right. Baptism. Church. His Not-Son at the end. His Not-Whatever by his side.
“Yeah,” Buck pushes out, trying to laugh off how punched-out and winded he sounds. “Sorry. Got a little lost in my head there.”
Eddie’s hand moves on his back, rubbing little circles against his suit jacket that make Buck feel a little bit like crying. Buck leans back into the touch and reaches behind without looking, awkwardly lacing their fingers together as he moves, leading Eddie to their seats. They part as they sit down, but Buck doesn’t have a second to breathe before Eddie is grabbing his palm with his own, properly holding his hand. His thumb curls around Buck’s like they’re hugging.
Eddie’s hand is his anchor throughout the ceremony. He watches with a schooled expression on his face, but his eyes… they’ve always given him away. He blinks back tears when Kameron and Connor lean down to kiss the baby’s head.
If it were anyone else, Buck probably could’ve played it off. The same way some people pretend to be overcome with emotion at weddings when they hear the vows and think to themselves when, when, when is it my turn?
But he’s with Eddie— Eddie, who reads him like a room occupancy sign: a single glance and he knows all there is to know.
He squeezes Buck’s hand, and it somehow feels like soon, soon, soon.
They walk up together to offer their congratulations once the man in black— a priest? Pastor? Preacher? Buck never learned the difference— draws his speech to a close. For a split second as they’re approaching, fear grips Buck. What if they invited him out of obligation, but they don’t want to see him?
The thought flies out the window when Connor claps a hand on Buck’s shoulder, drawing him into a bear hug. Kameron smiles politely, but her eyes stay fixed on her son. Buck doesn’t blame her.
“Thanks for coming, man. We just— we wanted to thank you again. Without you, we wouldn’t— I mean, we—” his voice grows thick with emotion, but it leaves a sour taste in Buck’s mouth.
He holds up a hand, shaking his head like it’ll rust still otherwise. “C’mon, man. Don’t mention it. You guys are a beautiful family. You… you’ll be a great dad, Connor.”
Eddie’s phone pings, a ridiculously loud sound in the solemn church that makes the baby fuss. Kameron nods goodbye before disappearing somewhere to soothe him. Buck has half a mind to reprimand him, but stops short when he looks over his shoulder to find Eddie smiling warmly at his screen.
When he senses eyes on him, he turns his phone around. It’s a candid one of the moms must have taken of Christopher and a girl sitting together near the beach. Their hands sit next to each other on a piece of plywood, their pinkies barely brushing. Buck can’t contain the soft sound of adoration that escapes him.
“Oh, is that your son?” Connor asks, leaning down to examine the picture. “Aw, man, he’s adorable.”
“He really is,” Buck breathes. Eddie looks at him, but the warmth in his eyes doesn’t wane at all when he focuses on Buck’s face instead of the picture. And isn’t that just another puzzle to add to the pile?
Connor grins and addresses Eddie for the first time.
“Well let’s hope he takes after you instead of this guy,” he slaps his hand against Buck’s chest. “He was such a slob when we lived together.”
An icy bead of dread travels down Buck’s spine because he assumed— he’s implying— to Eddie’s face—
“That’s, hah, that’s not—”
“He’s actually grown up a lot, believe it or not,” Eddie speaks over him, free hand falling to grab his again, proud and protective and almost possessive. “Matter of fact, he cleans my house better than I do. He’s a great cook, too. All in all, he’s come a long way since his frat house days.”
His eyes zero in on Connor’s face with a dangerous glint. With a careful smile, he continues. “Buck’s an incredible coparent. Chris and I are lucky to have him.”
“That’s awesome,” Connor says, easily. “Buck’s a great guy. I always knew he’d be a great parent, too.”
And Buck feels like he’s made out of stone because they’re talking about him like he isn’t right there, talking about him like he’s Christopher’s father and not, at best, a close uncle. And Eddie—
Eddie isn’t correcting him.
“Well, you were right,” he agrees. “Our family is infinitely better with him in it.”
Connor looks between them with a growing look of understanding. He draws Buck into another quick hug, pulling back to examine his face. “Well… I hope I’ll get an invite to the Buckley-Diaz affair. I could talk to the girl who hooked us up with this place. Get you a discount, maybe?”
And Buck has to open his mouth, has to howl like a wolf at the moon because Connor cannot be standing in front of him asking for an invitation to their nonexistent wedding. He looks to Eddie, silently begging for help.
“Nah,” Eddie waves him off, and Buck heaves a sigh of relief. His shoulders begin to relax, until— “I don’t really like churches.”
Before Buck can make sense of…. Anything, really, high-pitched wailing sounds from an adjacent room, echoing clear and bright in the main hall.
“I should go help Kam with the baby. It was great to see you guys, though!”
Buck has just enough brainpower left to call a rushed goodbye to Connor’s retreating form.
“Well,” Eddie nudges him with his shoulder. Buck looks down at him, bewildered. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
And Buck should say something. He should ask why Eddie entertained Connor, whether he thought it was funny to joke about their fictional future like that, but— well, what if he doesn’t want to hear Eddie’s answer?
He’s so tired. That conversation can wait. For now, Buck lets his head fall against Eddie’s shoulder as he whispers “Wanna go get street tacos?” into his shirt.
His chest rumbles with laughter that Buck can feel in his toes.
“Yeah, Buck. Let’s get tacos.”
3
Now that Chris has firmly crossed over into the broody waters of teenage angst, it isn’t cool to stay home during the weekends anymore.
He’s no party animal— not like Buck was when he was his age and doing everything in his power to get his parents’ attention through any means necessary— but he has friends. They go stargazing or play video games or talk a big game about things they’ll never do. Even the hypotheticals are better than hanging out with your father on Friday nights, evidently.
Though he denies it every time Buck brings it up, he thinks Eddie’s lucky: even if you’re going to the party of the century, it definitely isn’t cool for your parent to drop you off. But Chris, inheriting only the best parts of Eddie like his snark and a bone-deep sense of responsibility, dutifully hops into Eddie’s truck without complaint and lets him hug him goodbye.
It’s nice. Really, honest-to-goodness nice. It’s apple fucking pie á la mode.
Buck thought he might be envious— of which one, he’s not sure. Would he envy Chris for having such a doting father or envy Eddie for being one? He was certain a dark, petulant corner of himself would be kicking rocks and resenting them for having the kind of relationship he dreamed of growing up.
But the only thing he feels when he sees Chris reluctantly pull away from Eddie’s hug is something warm and gooey that runs down the inside of his chest like a cracked egg.
Then Eddie climbs back into the truck and turns a megawatt smile on him like stadium lights on a football field. This is the second part of this new routine they’ve settled into: without Chris, the house feels too lonely for Eddie. If you ask Buck, he’s not ready to grapple with the idea of being an empty nester any time soon.
So once Chris is safely off gallivanting with his friends, they go to Buck’s. They make dinner. They find comfort in each other’s company.
If he thought about it in depth for longer than a second, Buck might speculate that these little Friday-night Escapist Dinners are the only thing keeping him from selling this old loft. Most nights, he ends up “accidentally” falling asleep on Eddie’s couch. Buck forgot a sweatshirt here, a sock there until half the drawers in the bedroom were full of his clothes. If you think about it in a roundabout way, they’re saving water by having Buck shower in Eddie’s shower, wash his uniform in Eddie’s washing machine, rinse off plates he snuck over in Eddie’s sink. (The water content would be about the same if he did all of the above at his loft, but it feels more green at least.)
There’s something so terribly domestic about it, so sickly sweet like cherry cough syrup, but Buck wants to drink it up, drink it up, drink it up. Sometimes, when he finds an empty shampoo bottle on the ledge and knows exactly where to reach for the backup, it’s enough to convince himself that they’re doing more than playing house.
It feels so close to real, like a dream that’s just a distortion of a memory. He likes to indulge his imagination on quiet nights and think about a life where everything stays the same but he falls asleep in Eddie’s bed instead of the couch cushions. Don’t get Buck wrong, it’s still one of the most comfortable things he’s ever been on, but… it gets cold at night. (Buck knows Eddie runs warm at night. Buck knows his body turns into a fucking furnace. Buck wishes he could be wrapped up in and burn, burn, burn.)
“What’s on the menu for tonight?” Eddie asks as soon as the door swings shut. Buck cracks open the barren fridge and plucks out a few surviving cherry tomatoes and a stick of butter.
“Looks like pasta to me.”
It takes Buck a second to remember which cupboard he keeps his pasta in— and isn’t that a bad sign, that his own organization system has taken second chair in his memory? He draws out two boxes, blowing the dust off the top.
“Fusilli or farfalle?” He asks, surveying his spice rack to see what he even has left here at the ghost of his apartment.
“What’s the difference?” Eddie asks from his designated spot (perched against the counter, in a 150º line of temptation).
“Springs or bow ties?”
Eddie hums, wandering closer to drape himself against Buck as he reads both boxes.
“Which holds sauce better?” He tiredly asks, mouth precariously close to Buck’s bare neck. He coughs, focusing on rinsing tomatoes instead of counting the millimeters between Eddie’s lips and his skin.
“That all depends on the viscosity of the sauce. Farfalle does well with creamier sauces, like bechamel— the cheese sauce you watched me make for the mac and cheese last month. But a bolognese— think spaghetti sauce— holds better in the ridges of something like fusilli. But actually, there are ways to make the opposite true in either case— y’know, people always talk about cooking as if he’s an exact science, but there’s a lot of room to—”
“Buck,” Eddie scoffs, exasperated. The breath it produces feels like a blade against Buck’s throat. “Which do you think will be better for whatever sauce you’re making? How… viscous will that one be?”
Buck steps toward the stove, Eddie moving with him like a jacket. He drops the butter into a pan and adds a heaping spoonful of minced garlic.
“Honestly?” He sighs, giving the pan a jostle. “Remains to be seen.”
Eddie only hums in response, but Buck feels it directly against his pulse point. His lips are warm from where they’re pressed, unmoving, to the side of Buck’s neck. All it would take is a tilt of the head, a part of the lips… Or Buck could whirl around where he stands, take Eddie’s face in his hands and everything. If that’s all it takes, one fluid motion, why doesn’t he just do it? Take the polar plunge. See how cold the water really is.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Shit,” he hisses, glancing up at the smoke detector. He forgot he always has to turn on the oven’s fan or else it’ll go off at the slightest hint of cooking. How did he forget that? It’s the cardinal rule of cooking in this kitchen.
Probably because he barely cooks in this kitchen anymore, his mind answers for him.
He shrugs Eddie off to hop onto his counter easily, reaching for the detector’s kill switch. It takes a few pokes and prods, but the noise eventually ceases and he relaxes. When he looks at Eddie, it rattles him to see the unmasked heat in his eyes.
“What?” He asks, feeling delirious and dumb.
“I can’t believe you just—” Eddie runs a hand over his face. “I mean, you just did that so casually.”
Buck looks at the counter beneath his feet. “Dude. We’re firefighters. You could have done it without batting an eye.”
“I know that—” Eddie actually turns away from him. When he next speaks, his voice sounds muffled as if it’s trapped behind his palm. “It just looked… It was very…”
Buck slowly lowers himself back down. He steps closer, poking Eddie in the ribs to watch him jump.
“Very what?” He goads, feeling an odd sense of deja vu wash over him.
“Nothing,” he shakes his head, looking away as his hand tightens around the neck of his beer bottle. “Nothing at all. So which pasta are we going with?”
Buck wants to press, wants to see how far Eddie will bend before he breaks and gives away what’s going on here. Then the smell of browned butter hits him, so he decides to file this conversation away for later.
“Farfalle,” he shrugs. “More fun. Plus it’s easier to get it to al dente.”
Eddie chuckles, quiet. Buck knows that chuckle. It’s the same reply Eddie had every time someone brought up being jinxed or cursed or anything not easily explainable by science. Buck turns, crossing his arms.
“What?”
Eddie meets his eye immediately, amusement dancing around the dark rings. He shrugs, lips stretched in a grin before they wrap around the edge of his bottle. After a long, drawn-out sip, he places his beer down on the counter.
“It just makes sense that you would buy into that whole ‘al dente’ thing.”
“That al dente thing?” He raises a brow, incapable of resisting the gravity pulling him closer and closer to Eddie’s annoyingly self-assured smirk. “I’m sorry, are you implying al dente pasta is some sort of myth?”
Eddie rolls his eyes playfully. Buck kicks at his ankle. Exasperated but fond, Eddie releases a breath. “I’m not saying that, it’s just… why can’t you just cook pasta however it ends up being cooked? Why do you need a benchmark for it? As long as it isn’t still raw, what’s the point of fixating on the texture? It’s just a vehicle for the sauce in the end.”
“You’re so wrong, it’s almost funny,” Buck pokes at his shoulder with each word. “And that’s why you don’t do the cooking. If I let you decide to throw my methods out the window, we’d be eating mushy pasta every other week.”
“Oh, come on, even I know to stop before it gets that bad.”
“How would you be able to tell? Pasta doesn’t immediately stop cooking once it’s out of water, you know. Without these… what did you call them: benchmarks? Without them, you’d be looking at total chaos.” Buck clicks his tongue, eyebrows scrunched together. “Not the most consistent strategy for making a good meal.”
“God, look at us.” Eddie’s beaming from ear to ear. He looks radiant. Buck is so confused.
“What about us?”
Eddie shakes his head, slipping past Buck to shake some oregano onto the blistering tomatoes. Just when Buck’s ready to abandon the topic, he laughs under his breath again. In a low voice, he adds “We’re always getting ahead of ourselves. Already bickering like an old married couple. Over some damn pasta.”
And there are lots of things Buck could say to that, really, but what feels most pertinent is “Pasta texture is vital to the cohesiveness of the dish, asshole!”
Eddie laughs. Tips his head back and bares his canines and laughs, so loud and so beautiful.
After dinner, Eddie crashes on his couch. In the morning, he says it’s the shittiest sleep he’s had in years.
“I know,” Buck says. “It’s hard to find a good couch these days.”
4
There are some calls that stick with Buck because they’re horrific, calls that play out like old horror films behind his closed eyes at night.
There are some calls that stick with Buck because they’re hopeful, calls that he holds close to his chest like a stuffed bear on days where it feels like nothing, nothing will ever be good again.
And then there are calls that stick with Buck because they’re so preposterous, calls so improbable and fascinating that he can’t help but tuck them away for the next time he’s in a game of two truths & a lie.
Today a call stuck with Buck, blissfully, for the lattermost reason.
“Werr shtff,” a woman in white says when they arrive, just as another says “Hffpls.”
Well, that’s what Buck hears, anyway. It’s hard to make out what either of them are saying when their lips are glued together. Literally.
“Now this….” Hen shakes her head slowly. “This is a new one.”
“I’m so sorry, Amber!” A girl who couldn’t be older than seventeen says from a few feet away as Chimney takes the two brides’ vitals. “I thought it was lipgloss, I swear! Why would super glue even come in a tube like that?!”
“Suhkay,” one of the brides— Amber, he guesses— replies.
“Excuse me,” Hen turns her attention to the frantic girl at the sidelines. “What’s your name?”
“Harper,” the girl whines, eyes welling up. Hen places a comforting hand on her shoulder, adjusting her helmet so the girl can see more of her face.
“Okay, Harper. Deep breaths. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
The girl nods. Buck hands her a water bottle he found on one of the vanity desks.
“Amber’s my big sister. When she and Lacy got engaged, I begged to do the makeup. I wanna go to cosmetology school when I graduate. I thought this would be good practice.”
Hen nods, encouraging her to continue. “Anyway, it was going really well… I mean, look at their eyeshadow! Don’t you think it looks professional?”
“Totally!” Buck interjects. “I saw someone do a glitter cut crease like that once, and it looked super tacky, but you made it look, like, really classy!”
Hen levels him with a look. He shuts up.
“Thank you!” Harper places a hand on her heart. “But then, right before they were set to walk down the aisle… Amber wanted to touch up her lips. It shouldn’t have been a problem, but I forgot to bring the gloss with me. I ran to one of the makeup stations and grabbed what I thought was a tube of gloss. And then nothing out of the ordinary happened! She was smiling, and they both said I do, and then they kissed… and then they couldn’t stop kissing… oh god, our mom’s gonna kill me when she finds out!”
“Harper, try to stay calm,” Hen smiles at her. “You told your sister it was super glue. Are you sure that’s what it was? Not another type of adhesive?”
Harper hands Hen a small tube. She skims the label and calls back: “Chim, prep some acetone.”
“Acetone?” Harper asks. “Like nail polish remover?”
“It’s just to dissolve the glue,” Chimney explains to both Harper and the brides. “We’ll be extremely careful. We only need to apply it to the edges. It’ll take a few minutes, alright?”
Both of the brides shoot him thumbs up.
“Perfect. Now I need both of you to breathe through your noses and stay as still as possible. Starting…” he raises a steady hand with a damp cotton swab. “Now.”
By the time the bond starts to break up, Eddie wanders up to him. Buck nods his greeting, watching as the brides slowly peel away from each other, Hen jumping in to examine any external damage to their lips.
“Bet this isn’t what they had in mind for their first kiss as a married couple,” Buck winces in sympathy.
“Tell me about it. Here’s hoping ours goes a little more smoothly, huh?”
Buck huffs out a laugh, nodding in agreement. Eddie heads back to the engine while Harper just stares. Buck nearly waves a hand in front of her face or digs his flashlight out to check her pupils before she blurts out “Can I do the makeup for your guys’ wedding?”
“Uh…” Buck blinks, taken aback. Then her words sink in. “Oh, no, that’s not what’s going on. He meant he wants better for our weddings… plural.”
“I don’t think so,” Harper insists.
“Wh–Why do you say that?” he leans closer, eyebrows furrowing.
“Well, I mean—”
“Buck!” He sighs, looking to where his colleagues are clearly waiting for him. “You coming?”
Before he walks away, Harper catches his wrist. “Focus not just on what he said but how he said it.”
“Um. Will do.” He offers her one stilted nod before dashing off.
As soon as they get back to the firehouse, Buck makes a beeline for a pad of paper in the loft and tries to remember what Eddie said verbatim.
Here’s hoping ours goes a little more smoothly.
He underlines ours and goes with black ink.
If it were plural, shouldn’t he have said ours go?
But then, what does ours mean? If it isn’t his wedding (break) and Buck’s wedding… then what, did he mean his and Buck’s wedding? Without the break?
That would be crazy… wouldn’t it?
He looks over the railing, finding Eddie immediately amongst the throng of workers on the ground floor. Buck wishes he could see inside his head from here, and get all the answers from a safe distance.
But no distance from Eddie ever feels quite safe. Not really.
As if hearing his thoughts, Eddie turns and catches Buck’s eye. He smiles, raising one palm in greeting. Buck mirrors the action without thinking.
What if it isn’t all in his head? What if it wasn’t a slip of the tongue? What if this heavy, looming secret cache of desire he’s been hoarding isn’t actually rooted in fantasy?
The alarm overhead rings before he can think of any answers.
5
Remember that classification system for what makes a call memorable? The good, the bad, and the absurd?
They’re at a very memorable call. It’s not absurd, and it sure as hell ain’t good.
It began inconspicuously enough. A fire at a commercial building downtown. Eddie and Buck are sent to sweep the building for possible survivors, but the old wooden beams scream danger as soon as they step inside.
“Low visibility in here, Cap,” Eddie calls through his radio. Thick tufts of smoke billow around them, turning the offices into an Albert Bierstadt painting. It feels less like entering a rescue mission and more like entering a tempest. Or maybe the Bermuda Triangle. Whatever metaphor fits best, it makes Buck’s stomach turn in trepidation.
“Be advised, be advised,” Bobby’s voice rings out, urgent. “The building’s wiring is extremely outdated and not up to code. Proceed with extreme caution. There may be—”
“Live wires,” Buck finishes. He looks up and watches as Eddie crouches to traverse through an open doorway. At the last second, Buck notices something dangling from the ceiling. “Eddie, wait!”
He hears the electrocution before he sees it. A choked, guttural sound that seems like it’s being torn from Eddie’s throat. Buck rushes forward, barely being able to stop himself from making contact after he sees Eddie is still touching the live wire. His muscles are still twitching, disturbingly violent contractions that make Buck’s breathing even more shallow than before. He squints, but he can’t focus on whether Eddie’s chest is rising steadily or not.
With a shaking hand, he grabs his radio.
“Mayday, mayday,” he shakily gets out. “Firefighter down. Requesting immediate assistance. Firefighter Diaz has been—” a sharp intake of breath, “he’s been electrocuted. I can’t assess the severity at this time. The— the smoke is too thick, I can’t tell if he’s conscious.”
“Buck,” Hen’s voice rings out. “We’re on our way. Don’t move.”
Don’t move? How could they possibly expect Buck to just stay still, to— to not do anything?
“Fuck that,” he spits, shaking his head. He leans down, keeping a healthy distance between their bodies. “I’ll be right back, Eddie. I promise.”
Buck is a bulldozer as he searches the rest of the floor, shouldering doors open and walking through flames like he was sent from Hell. There’s no way the circuit breaker is anywhere near them, and there’s no chance Buck is leaving Eddie’s side.
Okay. He can’t cut the power. What can he do? Think, damn it, think.
He tries to recall everything he knows about electricity, all the tidbits he committed to memory after being struck by lightning. At the time, it was supposed to calm him down. If he understood how it worked, he could understand how it did what it did to him. He never thought he’d need to recall it to stop it from killing someone else.
Oh, dear lord. What if it kills Eddie? What if it kills Eddie, and he doesn’t come back after three minutes? Buck rushes into a new room, frenetic.
“I need…” he scans the room, desperation turning his eyes into magnifying glasses as he searches for something non-conductive. His eyes catch on a cart of cleaning supplies in the corner, untouched by the fire so far. He zeroes in on a wooden broom and crosses the floor in three long strides, ripping it from the cart.
“Eddie?” He calls when he returns to the hall, trying to find his partner through the nearly opaque wall of smoke that’s descended upon them. Buck falls to an army crawl, moving along until the glint of the uniform’s reflective strip hits his eyes.
“Please work,” he whispers, begging a god he isn’t sure exists. “Please, please work. And if it doesn’t, then let it be me. I’ll take all of the current, just let him live. Please. Please. Fuck.”
He shakes his hand out a few times to try and calm the nerves before he extends the wooden end of the broom, carefully lifting the wire and moving it away from Eddie’s arm.
All things considered, he should wait a moment to see if any debris from the ceiling is in danger of collapsing from him moving the wire. He should assess the situation and the innumerable safety concerns first. He should take a beat to breathe.
Without doing any of the above, Buck surges forward to grab Eddie under both arms and starts to drag him backward, using his feet to clear a path to the stairwell. With the fire concentrated at the other end of the hall, Buck deems the distance good enough to lean his ear to Eddie’s chest.
"C'mon, Eddie," he begs. "Fight for me."
He doesn’t hear anything. Frantically, Buck moves his ear a little to the left. Nothing. He moves a little to the right, panic clawing at his throat. Nothing.
His radio buzzes to life on his shoulder. “The entrance is obstructed. We’re trying to determine a safe alternate route, but it may take a while.”
Buck’s shaking as he reaches to respond. “Running CPR now. Once he’s breathing, I’m bringing him down. I’ll find a way.”
“Buck—”
He tunes them out as he rips open Eddie’s jacket, straightening his arms and pressing down in deep, even beats. When he leans down to administer a rescue breath, he whispers a promise that the next time their lips touch will be under better circumstances.
Buck doesn’t know how long he stays there, alternating between compressions and rescue breaths and reckless abandon. Eventually, he has to check his pulse. He presses two fingers to Eddie’s neck and holds his own breath until the skin jumps under his touch.
“Thank you,” he whispers to the sky. Buck could cry. He seriously fucking could. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Buck adjusts his hold on Eddie’s body, lifting with his legs to safely maneuver Eddie into a fireman’s carry. The irony isn’t lost on Buck, but he’ll save that laugh for later. Maybe for a time when Eddie’s eyes are open.
The way they came in is covered by decaying wood, so Buck sets his sights up and climbs another flight until he reaches one of the balconies. With one foot, he kicks the fire escape free and heaves a breath of clean air to recuperate his strength. The only thing he can focus on is keeping a vice grip on Eddie as he swings one leg over the railing and uses his one free hand for stability as he settles on the first stair.
Ever so slowly, Buck descends step by step, taking a second on each landing to readjust his grip and check Eddie’s pulse. Two floors from the ground, Eddie starts stirring.
“Stay still,” Buck orders, waiting until they reach the final landing before bringing Eddie down, watching as his eyes slowly flutter open. “I got you, Eddie. We’re almost to the paramedics. Can you hold out a little longer?”
He grunts. Buck takes that as a good sign— the best sign he can ask for, at least. He hauls Eddie back up and carefully descends until both feet are on the asphalt.
“Hey!” he roars, catching the attention of the team who all start barreling toward him. “He ran into a live wire. I don’t know how long he was down, but he was reactive—”
“We got it from here, man.”
Hands grab at Eddie’s body, shifting the weight off of Buck’s shoulders. It should be a relief, but it only makes him want to grab on tighter. The weight of Eddie against him is the only real proof he’s had of him being alive for the past thirty minutes. To lose that so suddenly, so simply… it makes his knees buckle.
“Whoa, hey, Buck!” Hen steadies him, throwing his arm around her shoulders as she walks him toward an ambulance.
“No, n—” he looks around, helplessly. “Eddie—”
“Is heading to the hospital with Chim. You need to get checked out.”
“No, I need to be there. I need to ride with him.”
“Buck,” Hen places a firm hand on his cheek, turning his face to her. “Listen to me. You inhaled a lot of smoke there. You overexerted yourself. Your adrenaline has kept you going this far, but I need to check you out.”
He stares at the ambulance doors as they close.
“It’s Eddie,” he mumbles. “He won’t go down easy.”
“No. He won’t,” Hen agrees. “You can go see him as soon as I clear you, alright?”
“Yeah,” he sighs, eyes blearily taking in the rest of the scene: survivors with oxygen masks and shock blankets, ladders extended to broken windows, the dying glow of a fire being contained. The alarm bells within him gradually quiet. “Yeah, alright.”
Buck doesn’t give Hen a chance to go back on her word. The moment she deems his vitals stable, he’s sprinting past Bobby, past the engines, past everything that doesn’t have a mole underneath his left eye.
He bursts through the hospital doors like a tornado, whirling around in circles like he’ll find Eddie if he just keeps looking.
“Buck, hey,” Chim appears out of nowhere, placing two hands on his shoulders. “Calm down.”
“Where is he?”
“They’re treating some minor burns right now. Doctors said it’ll mostly be about monitoring him for a few days. Nothing too serious.”
“Howie, where is he?”
Chimney takes a deep breath before leading Buck to the waiting room chairs, gently pushing him into a seat. “You can’t see him yet. Trust me, every worker here will be tripping over themselves to tell you once they can.”
Buck glances up at the nurse working the desk. She nods.
“Listen, Buck… on the drive here…”
“I should have been there,” he says automatically. Chim shakes his head.
“Just listen for a second. Eddie wanted me to tell you something—”
“This isn’t a deathbed message, is it? You said it wasn’t serious,” Buck rambles, feeling panic winding around his neck again. Chim looks at him in thinly veiled annoyance, which settles him down. Just a little.
“He said ‘Buck saved my life.’ He just kept repeating it over and over: ‘Buck saved my life, Buck saved my life.’ Then, before we pulled in, he told me to tell you…”
He trails off, biting his lip.
“What?”
“He said when he gets out of here, he’s going to marry you.”
Buck could hear a pin drop.
“Why would he– What?”
Chimney raises a brow. “Is that what you want your first reaction to his proposal to be?”
“It wasn’t a real proposal,” Buck shakes his head. “He didn’t mean it. How could he? It was just– just a gut reaction. A joke.”
Chim makes a low, disgruntled noise. “Buck, I love you, but you’re such an idiot.”
“What?” He looks to his brother, affronted.
“Your boyfriend proposed to you. He did it. You can write it off as a joke all you want, but—”
“What?”
At his ear-splitting volume, Chimney cuts himself off. He sends apologetic looks to everyone else in the waiting room before turning to Buck. “What is wrong with you?”
“Why would you call Eddie my b— that?”
Chimney stares.
“There’s no way…”
He pokes at Buck’s face like he’s made out of plastic. “Maybe you inhaled more smoke than we thought. Remember Eddie? Your boyfriend? You guys basically live together?”
“We’re not—” Buck snaps his mouth shut. He thinks back to all the lines they’ve crossed over the past year. All the little touches, the heated looks, the almost-almost-almosts.
There’s no way he’s been that blind, is there? All those tiny epiphanies of maybe this isn’t a one-way street… has it been more than that? Has it been this isn’t just requited; it’s set in stone this whole fucking time?
Buck jumps to his feet, all but running toward the exit. Chimney calls after him, but the blood pumping in his ears drowns the sound out.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
+1
Buck doesn’t say a word as he helps Eddie into the house, careful not to move the bandage on his arm too much.
The past few days were a whirlwind of tests and checks and a million other bits of housekeeping that kept Eddie busy while Buck tried to tread water in a sea of Is it? Did he? Are we?
For some strange reason, Buck assumed that when Eddie got discharged, he didn’t want the first thing he heard to be Hey, are we dating? No worries if not. But are we?
So he’s kept his mouth shut. And he’s done a damn good job of it so far.
Then they make it to the bedroom, and Eddie falls back with a hiss, and Buck opens his mouth to welcome him home or ask how he is or something, but all that escapes is—
“Why do I sleep on the couch?”
Eddie adjusts the pillow behind his back before answering. “Because you like the couch.”
“Why do I still rent the loft?”
Eddie finally looks at him, face contorted in confusion. “Because you like having your own space?”
The next question gets caught in Buck’s throat. He swallows before asking it.
“Why haven’t you kissed me?”
Eddie’s eyes grow big and wide. “Why haven’t I– Buck, what are you talking about?”
And there’s something in his tone that makes Buck think he’s got this all terribly, terribly wrong. For about two seconds. Then Eddie sighs and looks at him, all beauty and contrition.
“I thought… look, you ‘upgraded’ from Buck 1.0 because he rushed into things too quickly. You— you let go of Buck 2.0 because you wanted to forget your past. You keep trying to adapt, trying to improve yourself— even when you don’t need fixing, by the way. I guess I just… I can’t keep up. I figured you didn’t want to kiss me yet. I thought you might be too scared of falling back into 1.0 habits or whatever, and— god, that sounds so stupid.”
Eddie runs a hand through his hair before freezing and turning back to Buck. “Are you upset with me because I haven’t kissed you yet? Is that why you keep ignoring when I… you know.”
“Blurt out half-assed proposals?” He finishes, unable to keep the grin off his face.
“They aren’t half-assed,” he objects.
“Eddie,” Buck perches on the edge of his bed, grabbing his hand. “I have something to tell you.”
“Mierda, that’s never a good start to something.”
Buck takes a deep, centering breath before rushing it all out at once with his confession. “IDidn’tKnowWeWereDating?”
Eddie blinks. “What?”
It takes a second, but Buck can see the precise moment the words register. Eddie rips his hand away. “What?!”
Buck scrambles closer, kneeling on the mattress as he digs around his jeans pocket with one hand, reaching for Eddie with the other. Finally, his fingers graze a velvet box and he extracts it quickly. Eddie freezes when he sees it.
“I didn’t know we were dating,” Buck repeats, clearing his throat. He pops the lid open to display a simple silver band. “But I’d sure like it if we did a whole lot more.”
“Are you– are you fucking kidding me, Buck?”
Caught off guard by the callous tone, Buck falls back on his heels. “Wh—”
“Shut up,” Eddie says, fiercely. Buck closes his mouth so quickly, he hears something in his jaw click. Eddie moves like a wild animal as he contorts his body to the side, way too quickly for someone recovering from burns, and rifles through his nightstand drawer for a moment before procuring a small box. It opens to reveal a similar ring, only in gold.
Buck can’t help but laugh. “Well, this is awkward. One of us will have to—”
Eddie twists his hand in Buck’s shirt and pulls him in for a kiss. Buck feels like punching himself in the face when it sets in that they could’ve been doing this— and many, many other things— for the past ten months? Eleven? He’ll have to ask Eddie when their relationship started on his end. Buck cradles his face and tries to pour all the needlessly repressed love he’s been hoarding into a single kiss. The responsible voice in the back of his head reminds him that he should check if Chris is home before moving further or—
Wait.
He pulls away, drinking in the pleasantly dazed look on Eddie’s face as he mumbles something along the lines of “So much better than I’ve been imagining.”
And oh, Buck will surely be unpacking that later, but for now…
“What about Chris?”
Eddie gazes at him adoringly, tracing his features with a single thumb. “Hmm? What about him?”
“Does he think we’re—” Buck gestures a vague hand between them. Eddie bursts into that laughter that could move mountains again, and Buck can’t believe this is his. It’s been his for so much longer than he knew.
“Buck, Chris has thought of you as a parent since he was in elementary school. I think I heard him refer to you as ‘one of his dads’ to his friend last weekend. He probably hasn’t said it to your face yet because he doesn’t know if you want that.”
Internally, pieces of Buck’s psyche are clicking together to form a perfect, otherworldly finished puzzle.
Looking down, he takes the gold band out of Eddie’s box and slides it onto his finger. He reaches for the silver ring and glances up for permission. At Eddie’s faint nod, he pushes it onto Eddie’s ring finger.
“I want it,” he reassures Eddie, bringing their hands up to kiss the metal. “All of it. You, Chris, this. I’ve wanted this for so long, I never imagined I could have it.”
“And look at you now, cowboy,” Eddie leans his forehead against Buck’s. “You’ve had it all along.”
“God, I’m so stupid.” He presses a chaste kiss to Eddie’s mouth. Then another. “But I’m also the luckiest man on earth.”
Eddie hums, a suspicious sound. He runs a hand through Buck’s hair, letting his fingers retreat to trace his face again. Buck feels the cool kiss of his engagement ring against his birthmark. Eddie swoops down for one last, lingering kiss.
“Agree to disagree.”